Documenting the adventures of a middle-aged urban-variety single mother. How she does it, how she fails. The good the bad and the ugly. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. Let's just say 85% thrill, 15% agony.

Disturbed by kids? What we need is an adult-free zone. I'd much rather fly with a bunch of children, even if they do occasionally cry, or kick the back of your seat. All you have to do is ask them, wearing that special smile, to please be quiet. You almost never even have to say, "or I will stuff your head into the seat pocket in front of you."

I bet anything you've never flown with kids who take up half your (center) seat with their 400-lb. girth. Or who spend two hours cackling over Adam Sandler's latest shenanigans. Or engage in a coast-to-coast monologue about their cousin Mary the dietician who loves living in Seattle, except for the rain, so she's thinking about moving down to the Orange County area,which everyone says is so pleasant, what with the beaches and the weather and all. Or who, the minute the electronics hold is lifted, pulls down a Dell and a stack of papers and officiously clacks away at a spreadsheet showing landfill usage over a four year period, glowering at you when, after your, okay whatever, third gin and tonic, you need to get up to go to the bathroom so he has to gather together his reams of important data about discarded appliances and let you climb over his Docker-clad knees. Or who make the flight attendant tell them exactly what kinds of nuts are in the nut medley that's included in the snack box they might purchase.

Anyway, I've observed that the only obnoxious kids on planes are the ones flying with adults.